


Moths to a Flame

by seriouslyjustgo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cuddling, Drug Use, F/M, Johnlock Tumblr Challenge, M/M, One Shot, Post Reichenbach, Wedding, mildly angsty, rat wedding bow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 07:56:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/583051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seriouslyjustgo/pseuds/seriouslyjustgo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My submission for the Johnlock Tumblr challenge in which my prompt was 'The Box Under John's Bed.'</p>
<p>I had so many different avenues I wanted to take this story down, but I felt like I had read stories before about John keeping medals and stuff in a box so I wanted to steer clear of that.</p>
<p>Then I decided to incorporate the whole ‘rat, wedding, bow’ thing and this is what I came up with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moths to a Flame

**Author's Note:**

> I've never actually written a fan fiction before so thank you smaragdskyar for your lovely prompt and to get the creative ball rolling. I had such a great time trying to come up with a story :D

We are in the living at Baker Street again, Sherlock sitting cross legged in his chair and I in my own like the last three years had never happened.  Like Sherlock had not just disappeared from my life and left me a ruined shell of a man and that I had not been pieced back together by the lovely Mary Morstan.  It would have been like old times, if I had not come to tell Sherlock that I wouldn't be moving back into Baker Street with him.

"I told you this already, I'm getting married!"

"Yes well, leave it to you to find something so utterly dull to occupy your time while I was gone.  Doesn't matter, you can still move here and we'll see what we can do about Mary."  He spit out her name like it was acid in his mouth and I in turn felt myself bristle in anger.

"No Sherlock, we have already found a little flat to move in together.  Look, you can't just come barging back into my life after three years and expect me to drop everything for you!"

"Why not?"

"Because."  Beat.  "Look, I didn't come here to argue, I wanted to talk to you about something else.  The wedding is in two weeks, Saturday.  I would like you to stand in it."

"I'm not entirely sure what best man duties are but I'm sure the internet will provide adequate information.  Something about stag parties right?"

"Actually, I already asked Mike Stamford to be my best man."  There was a slideshow of emotions that flickered across Sherlock's face; I quickly identified confusion, anger and grief before finally settling back on the familiar mask of apathy.   

"Of course.  I have only been back for a little over two weeks and these arrangements have been made months ago.  You chose from one of your sparse male acquaintances, it would be rude to ask him to step down now."

"Sherlock, I am sorry.  I mean, I would have asked you but-"

"Circumstances beyond your control, I know.  I never expected you to figure out that I was alive."  But something in his tone of voice suggested otherwise, that I should have been smarter, that I should have figured it out a long time ago.  I should have waited. 

"Will you come though?  It would mean a lot to me." 

"Of course, I wouldn't miss it." 

 

\-----

 

I could tell some of our guests were starting to get antsy now.  Obviously all these people had so much better things to be doing with their Saturday afternoon than sharing in mine and Mary's joyous occasion.  I started to make mental notes of who would not be getting Christmas cards from us in the future.  From the way the priest kept shooting me not so subtle glares I knew that he was about ready to carry on regardless of what bull shit story I came up with about why we should keep waiting. 

Mike pulled me aside, "We've been waiting half hour, John." 

"Just another five minutes, Sherlock said he'd be here."

He waved his hand to encompass the waiting group of people seated in the church pews.  "Mary may have the patience of a saint but these people don't.  I'm sorry mate, he's not coming."

If I was honest with myself, I knew this but I didn't want to believe it.  He promised he'd be here!

_Yes and he also jumped off a roof and disappeared for three years._ _How could I possibly trust anything he told me anymore?_

I just nodded to show my consent to carry on with the ceremony, not trusting my voice to break if I used it.      

 

The ceremony continued without a hitch, though I would have given anything for Sherlock to have shown up, even if he came storming in half way through.  As Mary and I joined our guests for the reception, I was still looking around hoping to spot his tall, lanky form.  I was surrounded by a sea of Mary's friends and family while my own sparse relations were few and far between.  It was a disheartening realization that I hadn’t done much to keep in touch with the friends I had made working with Sherlock.  Greg, Molly, Mrs Hudson, I hadn’t even thought to invite Mrs Hudson to my wedding. 

"John!"  I looked around, trying to see who was calling me now, who wanted to shake hands with an order of congratulations.

"John!"  I turn to see Sherlock come jogging toward me, bodily shoving whoever had the ill luck of being in his way before coming to stand before me.  He gazed down at me with those eyes that made it feel like he could see through me into my soul and pluck out every little incident that had ever happened to me. "I missed it?"

"Yes, you missed my wedding.  But just in time for dancing and maybe cake, lucky you."

"Sarcasm John, really?  How trite.  I would have been on time, I swear but look- I brought you a present!"  He held out a medium sized box, wrapped in midnight blue paper.  I could just spot the gift tag where my name was scrawled in his elegant handwriting.  He seemed to notice where my eyes fell because he added, "It's for you, just you.  Not you and Mary, definitely no Mary.  But it's what took me so long!  I didn't know how to wrap it, I don't think I've ever wrapped a present before in my life and if I have, I deleted that information.  I had Mrs Hudson help me, actually she wrapped it and I just kind of watched... supervised... talked her through it.  I had to go to the shop John, the shop!  I don't keep wrapping paper around the flat, but now I have so much of it and I don't know what to do and did you know they have so many different kinds of ribbons because there are curly ribbons and straight ribbons and ribbons that say things-"    

If it wasn't the incessant prattling that alerted me to the fact that something was so very wrong, anyone could have looked at Sherlock and known that he was distinctly unwell.  His skin was the colour of oatmeal and he was thrumming with a visible undercurrent of energy. 

"Sherlock?  Are you high?"

"-And that's just silly!  Ribbons that say things!  Does that make things more festive?  Ow, John!"  I grabbed him by the elbow and forcibly steered him out of the reception room, muttering apologies as we went about Sherlock being unable to hold his liquor.  I dragged him into the hall, where we were rewarded with momentary peace and quiet.

"Want to open your present?"

"No Sherlock, I don’t want your stupid present!  Show me your arm."

He thrust his forearm in my face, "See, arm."

"That's not what I meant you prat."  Even though he couldn't seem to focus on anything and spent a considerable amount of time avoiding looking me in the eye, I could tell from this distance that his pupils were blown.  Utilizing years of army training, I lunged at the other arm feeling that Sherlock might have been a bit proud of me that I knew to go for his left arm since he was right handed if he wasn't so out of it.

I grabbed a hold of his wrist, trying to push up his shirt sleeve but found myself fighting with 180 pounds of wiggling, squirming detective.  He pushed his right hand into my face; the package he had previous been holding fell abandoned by the wayside.  If he thought I would give up so easily, he had another thing coming.  Harry and I fought all the time when we were younger, every weekend was a wrestle fest of epic proportion and this was child's play. 

He was starting to anger though, baring his teeth and letting out a feral snarl. "Damn it, leave me alone John!"     

"Then show me!"

I had managed to get the sleeve up past his elbow when Sherlock decided to switch tactics from trying to poke my eyes out and instead put his hand on my left shoulder, thumb finding my scar and he dug his finger into it-hard.  "I said, leave me alone!"

I couldn't stop the whimper of pain that escaped my lips as I stumbled backwards to escape his grasp.  There was physical discomfort but emotionally the pain leveled the same as having been shot again.  Sherlock had always been uncharacteristically aware of my injury; he never actually asked about it but always avoided touching my left side or asking anything too physically tasking of me.  Now he stood towering above me, looking equal parts proud of himself for having effectively silenced me but mortified at how he had managed to do so at the same time.

I couldn't unsee what he had fought so hard to protect though; fresh track marks on the inside of his elbow that sat in a pool of bruises. 

"I had to think John, and drugs are the only thing that helps!  You wouldn't understand."

"Understand what?  What is there to understand?  I thought you were my friend, my best friend and you come to my wedding high?  The most important day of my life and you couldn't even be there for me?"

"But John, I needed to think of a way to keep you from leaving!  Nothing else was helping.  I even took Mrs Hudson’s advice and had a hot bath."  All of Sherlock's previous manic energy seemed to leave him in a huff, he sagged against the wall looking quite pathetic.  I might have even felt a bit concerned if all of that anger he previously harboured hadn't found a new home in me.

"You're selfish, Sherlock Holmes."  I jabbed a finger to his chest, where he just watched it with despondent eyes.  "I have a new life now and you're not the fore runner anymore.  And you know what, I'm not sorry!  You left me!  I trusted you, I trusted you to let me in and to let me help you. And then you left me for three years and what was I supposed to do?  Wait?  And you know what else?  Showing up high as a fucking kite to my wedding-not exactly the best way to make me want to keep you around." 

Sherlock said nothing, but just picked up the previously forgotten present and held it out like a balm that would soothe the anger I felt.  "Please?  I really did spend a lot of time on it." 

I snatched it from his hands, noting how light it was and for a second thought that it was probably just an empty box.  Or an interesting ear sample that he had picked up and thought I would find it equally fascinating as well.

"Go home, Sherlock.  You look like shit."

"But, I thought I was in time for cake..."

"Go home."  I made sure the tone of my voice invoked no argument.

"I'll text you later tonight then?  I have a case involving a woman-"

"No, I'm leaving on my honeymoon tomorrow."

"Oh."  I wasn't sure the last time I had been privy to such an awkward conversation.  I would have paid someone all the money I had in my savings (which granted wasn't a whole lot) to have them run naked through the hall, just to ease the tension and even then that probably wouldn't have helped. 

Present under arm, I turned and started back down the hall to rejoin the rest of the party.  "Talk to you later?"  He called to my retreating back.

"Sure.  Bye, Sherlock." 

As I turned the corner, I saw Mary come striding toward me, probably wondering where her new husband had possibly wandered off to. 

"Someone told me you and Sherlock were having a row.  Everything alright, love?"

"Yeah, no worries."  Mary frowned, that one endearing one where her lip quirked down into a mixture of concern and borderline frustration.  I kissed her cheek, "Well Mrs. Watson, should we grace the rest of our guests with our presence?"

"I suppose that would be the polite thing to do.  Present from Sherlock?"  She gestured to the parcel I had tucked under arm.

"Oh, it's nothing.  Bit of joke I believe."  I spotted a bin by the door to the reception area and quickly deposited Sherlock's present within.  "It's absolutely nothing at all."                      

 

\------

 

"John Hamish Watson, will you knock it off!  Honestly, you're a child."  I didn't see what was so silly about emptying all the Tupperware from the cupboard to see if there were presents hiding behind all that plastic.  It was Christmas, everyone had license to let loose a little bit.    

"And trying to find each other’s Christmas presents is a tradition going on what, five years?  Who am I to break such a hallowed custom?  Well downstairs appears clean, guess I'm going to head upstairs."  I trampled up the stairs to our bedroom, hotly pursued by my wife as we giggled the whole way up.

I reached the bedroom first, making a show of looking in the closet and through the dresser drawers even though I knew they were clean, I had checked them already.  Mary just sat on the bed, watching me with an absolutely horrendous poker face.     

"Under the bed maybe?"  Lying on my stomach, I reached under our bed to fish around for anything that could be Christmas present material.  "When was the last time we cleaned under here?  It's like a dust storm."

"I don't know, when we moved in?  Honestly, there's nothing under there."  I couldn't see what I was grabbing for but my fingers ghosted over something that felt suspiciously like a wrapped box.  "Oh really, then what's this?"  I extracted a box, wrapped in dusty midnight blue wrapping paper with my name written elegantly on the gift tag.  Why did it look familiar?

"Jesus, is this from the wedding, the present Sherlock got me?  I binned it, how did it end up under the bed?"

"I couldn't let you just throw it away John.  I had my sister go and grab it, I knew you were angry at the time but I thought you'd regret it later." Mary came to sit with me on the floor, fiddling with the hem of her dress.  "You should open it."

"What?  Now?  It's been five years Mary, I don't know if I want to."  Part of me was curious and a little scared about what Sherlock would consider an appropriate gift, and thankfully it wasn't stinking so whatever it was hadn't been alive at any given time. 

"When was the last time you even talked to him?"

"Maybe once or twice after the wedding.  He texted me a few times but I kind of ignored him and eventually he stopped."  The look of concern on Mary's face didn't go unnoticed.  "Look, I was mad okay?  He had left me!  He had me believe he was dead!  Then one day he just shows up, like ‘surprise!’ What was I supposed to do, forgive him?  I know he wanted to talk but I had a lot of things going on like the wedding and the honeymoon and we moved and I got that new job..."  I let myself peter out, each excuse sounding pretty pathetic once voiced aloud. 

"I know how much he means to you-"

"Meant, he meant a lot to me."

"No, don't lie to me.  I know you still think of him, I know you reread your old blog entries because you sit on your laptop and get this far off dreamy look on your face.  It breaks my heart every time John, every time!  I never felt like you settled with me, I know you love me but I think you love someone more.  You miss the excitement and you miss him. Now, open the box John."  She pressed a kiss to my forehead before getting to her feet.  "I'll be downstairs."

I waited until I heard her feet down the steps before I picked at the wrapping paper with a heavy dose of trepidation.  What did I possibly have to worry about?  Well it was a present from Sherlock whose idea of an ideal gift was body parts and chemicals. 

I carefully shed the wrapping paper, and then sliced open the nondescript cardboard box with my pocket knife. 

Inside was a collection of notebooks, at first glance I guessed about five or six.  I grabbed the first one.     It was a dark brown Moleskine, looking particularly worse for wear around the corners.  It had stains on the cover, one smelt like syrup but the rest I couldn't tell.  I brought it to my face, inhaling the naturally musty scent of paper mixed with tobacco.  I flipped through it, noticing that each page was filled with Sherlock's elegant handwriting; he had essentially gifted me his diaries.  If any of these started with 'Dear Diary' I was probably going to just die laughing right here.  I flipped to the first page, noting that it was dated just a few days after Sherlock's supposed suicide.

 

_April 12th_

_I don't have the skull to talk to anymore.  I don't have anyone.  Molly gave me this notebook and suggested that I write in it instead.  This is boring._

 

I chuckled, finding that I could picture Sherlock sitting on the couch writing the word 'bored' over and over again just for something to do.  The next entry was dated a few days later.

 

_April 15th_

_John, why do you keep visiting my grave?  What do you hope to accomplish by staring at a piece of granite?  I wish I could tell you I'm not there, that you weep for nothing.  I'll be back though, I promise.  I will write down these thoughts every day, so maybe when I do come back you'll be able to forgive me easier if you know that I thought about you every day.  What is this?  Sentiment?  Look at what you did to me, John Watson._

_April 18th_

_I followed you all the way to the graveyard again.  John, we really need to talk about your observation skills.  It rained today, and you just sat there in the rain.  Idiot.  You're going to catch cold._

_April 29th_

_I'm leaving for France tomorrow.  I don't want to leave London.  I wish you could come with me.  Have you ever been to France?  I should send Mycroft some croissants, ruin his diet._

_May 1st_

_Paris smells funny.  I saw a shop that specializes in jam and thought of you.  It was a toss-up between blackberry or strawberry rhubarb.  Then I remembered I'm not lugging a jar of jam around for however long this takes.  I will bring you back here someday, and you can pick out whatever you want._

 

I couldn't stop reading, the sun had long since started to hide behind the buildings but I couldn't tear myself away to join Mary downstairs.  The most riveting book I had ever read consisted of Sherlock's musings on flavours of pudding and long one sided conversations with me.  You wondered what my biggest fears were and why you never asked more about my parents and life before we lived together.  If I had one chance to get away with the perfect murder (I promise I'll pretend it wasn't alarmingly obvious you did it, John) who would I kill?  Sherlock then wrote a whole page making an argument for Anderson to be my choice.  What was my favourite fruit?  Muscle in the body?    

You never went a day without writing something (September 3rd entry just said 'Bored') and that in itself was so utterly heartbreaking.  It was a log of every conversation we might have had, all your loneliness etched into a tangible thing for me to touch and see. 

 

 

_January 18th 2013_

_I realized something today- I miss you.  Inexplicably.  What is it about you John Watson that inspires these absolutely wretched feelings in me?  Is this how all people wander around?  Feeling lost and confused and completely out of control?  This is miserable._

_February 5th 2013_

_I wrote you a song.  Well, working on it.  It's difficult when I don't have access to my violin; I can't get the pieces right without it.  My mind can only put together so much, maybe one of my only short comings.  I will have to play it for you when I return._

_March 18th 2013_

_I managed to track down Robert Walker right here in London.  He was like a third hand man, if that makes sense. It's just Moran now, and a few loose ends but nothing I can't handle.  I'm going to put a bullet between his eyes, or is that too quick and easy for what he's put me through?  I just want this to be over though, I want to come home.  I want to sit in my chair and have you make me a nice cup of tea.  And you will sit in your chair and I will tell you all about the places I traveled and the people I murdered to keep you safe though I suppose that's a 'bit not good' isn't it?  But things will be just like I never left, and we can live together until we're both old and grey and going blind and deaf or whatever.  I don't care, I just never want to be separated from you again."_

 

I drove the palms of my hand into my eyes, trying to push the tears back in but oh God, I couldn't stop it.  I was crying, and crying quickly escalated into anguished sobs that I couldn't stop just as much as I couldn't stop hair from growing or lemons from being sour. 

I didn't hear Mary come in, but suddenly I was in her arms and my face full of cashmere cardigan.  She was made of a dozen hands; rubbing my back, threading fingers through my hair, caressing my face, hugging, pulling me closer.  She whispered meaningless words of comfort, but I felt like I deserved none.  I had been selfish; I had never thought of how Sherlock dealt with those years where he was supposedly dead.  What it had been like for him, utterly alone and only wanting to come home and I had ruined it.  I had ruined the companionship he wrote about with abandon, refusing to see him as anything other than a machine that had deceived his only friend.  

"I messed up, oh God!  I don't know what to do Mary."  I choked out, after I felt like I could be in better control of my voice.  "What do I do?"        

"You go to him."     

 

\------

 

I made a beeline for Baker Street the minute I woke up the next morning.  The phone number I had for Sherlock had been disconnected but I knew I could find him at the flat.  I knocked on the front door, anticipation running so high I felt like I was contagious with excitement.  Why wasn't everyone who walked past me just dancing with joy in the street? How many years had it been since we had seen each other properly?  Almost five since the wedding, three since the Fall so roughly seven at least, maybe eight but whatever it was, it had been far too long. 

I knocked again, louder this time before I heard the patter of feet on the other side.  The door opened to reveal Mrs Hudson, looking thoroughly confused by my presence that I turned to make sure no one was standing behind me making silly faces. 

"Hi, Mrs. Hudson.” The words sounded lame, but I didn't know what else to say to a person I hadn't seen in five years.  Her face broke into an infectious smile and she wrapped me in a constricting hug.  "Oh John!  Happy Christmas!  I haven't seen you since the wedding!  How's Mary?"

"Fine, she's fine.  Actually, I'm here to see Sherlock." 

"Ah." I caught her smile slipping south before she hoisted back it up, looking a tad bit forced now for my liking.  "Why don't you come in and we can talk?  I just made biscuits."

  

221A Baker Street still smelt the same; fresh baked biscuits and tea intermingling with a smell that I could only label as 'antique store.' 

Mrs Hudson came shuffling back into the room, the one noticeable mark that time had even been moving forward in the flat.  She looked so old and haggard, that for the second time in 24 hours I felt nothing but the searing pain of guilt that I had done nothing to keep in better contact with anyone from my prior life.

She set down the tray of biscuits and a fresh pot of tea before taking a seat beside me.

"Splash of milk, one sugar.  See, I didn't forget dear."

"I don't mean to be rude or anything, it's lovely to see you but-"  I gestured vaguely upstairs, now feeling an almost intolerable level of impatience and giddiness.

"Sherlock doesn't live here anymore dear.  It's such a shame you boys didn't keep in better contact, I always figured you'd be keeping each other company to the graves.  Not many people forge conn-"

"Wait, I'm sorry.  What?  Sherlock doesn't live here?  As in, he left 221B Baker Street?"  What kind of alternate reality had I slipped into?  If Mrs Hudson leaving Baker Street would cause England to fall, then Sherlock leaving would surely cause a rip in the very fabric of space and time. 

“It was about two years ago now, had a bit of an accident.  He was running across roof tops after some murder suspect, tried to jump across but mistook the distance.  Had quite a tumble, broke his leg rather badly."  I noticed the moisture gathering in the corners of her eyes and handed her a tissue from the coffee table.  "Oh, thank you dear.  After that it was all physical therapy and then a pain killer addiction.  I finally had to call Mycroft after one particularly bad overdose and he had him ushered away to rehab again."  The only sound now was the ticking of the wall clock punctuated by Mrs. Hudson blowing her nose. 

"Why didn't anyone call me?"  I inquired, finally finding my voice. 

"He always insisted we never call you.  Sherlock said that you had your life now and your own problems, to not bother you with his."  Yes, my problems consisted of working out dinner plans with the in-laws and whether two weeks off for holiday in June would be enough time to travel Germany.  I could have easily helped the ease the burden, taken the weight of some of Sherlock's problems as well.

"Do you know where he is now, Mrs Hudson?  It's very important that I find him."

"Oh yes, I saw him just a few days ago.  An early Christmas visit.  He lives down near Sussex now, quiet little place that Mycroft set him up with.  We all thought it best if he got out of the city for a while.  Here, let me write you down the address."

 

\------

 

Two days later and I was sitting in the back seat of a cab, watching the snow fall lazily as we cruised through the countryside.  My stomach was churning with nerves; as someone who had invaded Afghanistan, being reunited with an old friend shouldn't be so anxiety inducing but I couldn't stop fidgeting.  I wished for Mary to be here, if only to have someone to talk to but she insisted that I go by myself and that she didn't want to intrude.  I was glad she was the one who suggested it though, bringing her with me somehow seemed oddly inappropriate.   

Every minute, every house we passed, every rotation of the wheels brought me closer to Sherlock and also closer to what felt like vomiting.  What was I possibly going to say?  'Oh, sorry I tried to shun you from my life but I was really just upset you left me and didn't know how to react in an appropriate way?'  Was he going to be glad to see me?  Was he going to be upset?  He'd probably shut the door in my face, if he even opened it at all.

"Here we are mate."  It looked like a cottage straight from the cover of a tourism magazine.  It was a quaint two story red brick building complete with trimmed hedging, gently smoking chimney, and front porch. Even from under the dusting of snow, I could see a spot where a garden had been planted in the front of the house.  The thought of Sherlock weeding and tending to plants made my heart clench painfully in my chest. 

Paying the cabbie, I grabbed my overnight bag and headed up the path.  I hurried and knocked on the door, afraid if I showed any hesitation my body would override my mind and take off running down the path.  A few moments passed and I knocked again.  Still nothing.  I was starting to see the flaws in my plan- maybe Sherlock was out for the afternoon, or maybe he was napping or knowing him, just couldn't be arsed to come to the door.  And of course the one major flaw was that I hadn't asked the cabbie to wait and had no idea how to go about getting another one. 

Then the door opened, "Damn it Mycroft, I was eating lunch which is probably why you stopped-John!" 

I hadn't been prepared.  In my mind it was 'Oh hello Sherlock, why yes I would like to come in for tea, that would be lovely.'  Or the door slamming swiftly in my face.  I didn't expect to see him standing there, looking no different than the last time I had seen him.  He was even wearing that familiar dressing gown over pyjamas that just screamed 'too lazy to actually dress myself.' He was a bit thinner, gaunter in the face as it was obvious his last bout of addiction and rehab had not been kind to him.  But then I noticed the cane gripped tight in his left hand, knowing there was nothing psychosomatic about this injury.  I wondered if it would be different if I had been there to stop him from jumping, if I had been there would he even need to be sequestered away in the country for his health? 

"John."  He breathed my name uttered in reverence like he was praying to a deity.  I didn't know how to reply, what words I could possibly string together to do justice to the turmoil of emotions roiling inside of me like a tea kettle.  I stepped forward and wrapped him in a hug; he stood awkwardly like a broken statue for just a moment before dropping his cane and crushing me against his body.  He smelt like tea and wood smoke and reminded me of weird things like crime scenes and breakfast at Baker Street. 

"I'm sorry."  I spoke into his neck, unwilling or unable to break away from his strong embrace.  "I've missed you, so much."

Sherlock for once seemed incapable of speech, in lieu of words he instead pressed rough kisses on top of my head.  I was pretty sure he was crying, but I didn't mention it because I knew I was too.

 

We spent the rest of the afternoon sitting on the couch, watching it snow through the giant window in the living room.  All of the awkwardness of our years apart melted away as we talked the day away.  I told Sherlock about my life with Mary and how we had tried to conceive but eventually gave up.  He told me about his injury and briefly touched on his time spent in rehab.  I always thought the saying of 'time heals all wounds' was clichéd but I was starting to change my mind, and briefly wondered if I could prove any other idioms true.

The sun had long since drifted under the horizon when I felt my eyes start to droop.  

"You packed a bag, you didn't plan on heading back to London tonight." 

"No, it's kind of a long trip.  I'll get a room in town or something."

"Don't be absurd, this place is plenty big enough.  Besides, it's snowing out and I don't know how you're going to get a cab this time of night."

A glance at my watch proved my suspicions that it was ungodly late, 2 am, and I wondered when the last time I had been up all night was.  Probably some time with Sherlock, chasing idiots around the streets of London with my Browning and an unhealthy obsession with adrenaline- I grinned at the memory.

"Well, there's a bedroom upstairs you can take."

"Alright, erm...see you in the morning then?"  I wasn't sure what the protocol for these types of situations was.  What I wanted to do was kiss him good night, or at least hug him again.  The years had done little to ebb the attraction I felt for him; he was a flame and I a moth.  I would probably continue to bash myself against the glass window trying to get to him, but never quite there.

"Yes, sounds good.  'Night John."  He stood there awkwardly for a beat before turning and limping away to what I assumed was his own bedroom. 

Sighing heavily, I grabbed my overnight bag and trudged up the stairs.  My disappointed at being separated from him only stung all the more when I remembered that I was married and the activities I was daydreaming about constituted as cheating.  It wasn't fair to Mary, but then when all I had ever desired was possible again, was it fair to me? 

The upstairs was just a guest bedroom, small but tastefully decorated in a nautical theme.  I wondered who had a hand in decorating because I was sure it wasn't Sherlock.  I could imagine Mrs Hudson dragging him out to decorate the new house, proving that she was more than 'just the land lady' as she had always proclaimed.  How did he get on without Mrs Hudson there to clean up after him?  For that matter, how had he survived without me to make sure he ate and generally treated his body like a living thing and not an automaton?

_‘Well, you weren't always in his life.’_ I thought, _‘He got on fine before you, didn't he? Yes, but he was also a drug addict before I met him. Who relapsed without you there a second time.  Do the math.’_

 

There was a hesitant knock on the door, "John?"

"You can come in."  Sherlock stepped in, looking markedly wrong footed.  "What's up?  I was just going to put my pyjamas on."

He crossed the room in two giant steps, injury be damned and placed the most crushingly desperate kiss on my lips.  I was shocked, and a little confused because two parts of my brain were giving me mixed signals.  One, I was married and had a lovely wife who was sweet and understanding-

Two, I was kissing Sherlock Holmes which was like a parched man getting a drink of water after years of thinking he could live without it.  It was like someone had opened the window and the moth could finally reach the flame.  It was utterly sublime.    

The battle of my conscience only lasted a millisecond because the minute I had seen him again, I knew what part was going to trump the other.

I kissed him back, matching his wanton desperation like we were in constant danger of someone walking in and being found out.  He was all lips and teeth, a whirlwind of energy with no finesse but points for trying.  I broke away first after a few moments, grinning like an absolute loon and he returned the smile. 

"I think I found something that I'm better at than you."

"Oh, do tell."

"You really are an awful kisser."  His face fell slightly, looking irritated. 

"Well it's not like I exactly have a plethora of life experiences to draw from."

"It's alright though, everyone's rubbish at first.  You'll get better with practice, I promise."  And by practice I mean on me, all weekend, possibly every day.  Sherlock seemed to understand the heavy connotation behind those words, always better on picking up the little things that people didn't say.  He rested his forehead against mine, giving a little sigh of pleasure that ghosted my face with the smell of toothpaste.  "Lay down with me?"

I nodded against him, finding that my tongue and my mind weren't exactly on the best of terms today it seemed.  "Let me, uh, let me get changed.  Pyjamas." 

He took my hand, slipping it under the fold of his dressing gown so that it was resting on his chest.  His bare chest, my anxious mind provided. 

"You're naked, under your clothes."

He just shook his head, and I could almost hear his voice in my mind, 'Of course John, we're all naked under our clothes.  Very astute observation.' 

"Pyjamas are only good for lounging around, I sleep nude.  I was going to sleep in my room but I didn’t want to be away from you for that long.  I haven’t seen you in something that boils down to five years, 3 months, 14 days…roughly.”

“And another few hours would be unacceptable?”

“Absolutely, now come here."   

The only sound in the room was our ragged breathing as I helped Sherlock work my jumper over my head where it was discarded on the floor, promptly joined by the rest of my clothes.  Feeling rather foolish standing there starkers, I quickly climbed under the sheets.  Sherlock flicked the light off, and we were engulfed in perfect darkness.  There were no street lights seeping through the window, no moon, no nothing.  I could hear every sound now in magnified detail- Sherlock padding back to the bed and the swish of fabric falling from his body to hit the floor.  He joined me under the blankets, our bodies finding each other in the darkness with perfect accuracy.  I shifted to lie on my back and he snuggled against my side, a veritable maze of limbs and flesh with the desire to never untangle them again.  Sherlock would periodically press chaste kisses to my parts readily available to him- chest, forearm, cheek, corner of my lips.  He didn't seem to be interested in taking it any further, content to revel in quiet cuddling instead of the frantic pace of sex and for once I was okay with that.              

The world outside of this bedroom ceased to exist.  There was only the two of us, wrapped up in blankets and the heat of naked skin pressed together. 

"Sherlock?"

"Mmm?" He kissed my collar bone. 

"I read all those journals you gifted me.  I believe you owe me a jar of jam."

"Yes and I also mentioned that I wrote you a song and all you want is jam."  I could hear the exasperation in his voice, and it was my turn to kiss him, choosing the top of his head. 

"Play it for me tomorrow?"

"Of course."  I found myself starting to drift off to sleep, thoughts of violins and late breakfast wandering through my head.  Now there was no cane, no substance abuse meetings, no more notebooks detailing three years of suffering and another five years of untold memories.  There was no job, no Mary, no flat in London- there was just Sherlock here in my arms and I couldn't remember the last time I felt so happy.


End file.
